When We're Both a Little Lost
by lynne z
Summary: This was about comfort.


This was about comfort. It had to be because anything else was slippery and had potential for utter disaster. Neither of them planned on this or wanted to act on the feelings they tried to ignore and still tried to dismiss. They fell into bed the night Wesneski shot himself, both needing something to make them feel solid again. They went through the typical heave, hoe, about how it couldn't happen again, but then it did, over and over in the last two months. Usually he showed up at her door, tired from another hospital visit, and she let him in, pulling him to her, but refused to admit how much she relied on him coming there – how she only slept the nights he was with her. She wouldn't admit anything in these moments, since they barely acknowledged it at all once the night was over.

The weight of his body was warm and overwhelming, as his fingers made soft but sure circles across her breast and down her ribs. This was not the worn man who showed up at her door, nor was it the odd, even if charming man she was introduced to six years ago. The man surrounding her knew what he wanted and needed, and seemed pretty confident he could give her what she needed too.

He lipped her forehead as his hips pressed forward into hers and she couldn't stop her arms and legs from wrapping around him, burrowing her nose into his collar bone. He moved over her and she lifted her hips to meet his, making them either moan or gasp.

Comfort.

She silently repeated the word over and over as he moved faster and harder inside of her. She clutched tighter to him, while her body pulsed and begged for his. Sex hadn't been the same since Joe, but this felt reminiscent and that only led her to think about all the things they wouldn't say to each other – how this had to be so much more than comfort.

His lips parted against her temple as he let out a cry and his body tensed, deeply rooted to hers. Then she heard it – a gasp intermingled with a barely audible, "love you." She could have heard wrong. It could have just been a slip of the tongue – caught up in the moment and all the pain they both had felt the last few months. He couldn't have meant it because this wasn't what this was supposed to be.

He kissed her neck and slid away from her body to his side of the bed. Confused and a bit guilty, she rolled to her side, curling away from him, and pulled the sheets over her. She stared across to her dresser, where a wedding picture still rested, and fought the urge to go and turn it around, as if the man in the picture could still judge her. She felt ashamed, but she wasn't sure if it was because of how she and her partner were using each other or how she could really love him if she just let go.

His fingertips on her hip slightly startled her, but she played it off by snuggling deeper into her pillow. She listened to the subtle shift of the bed and imagined him craning his neck to try to see her eyes, but then his fingers slipped away and the bed dipped and contorted as he rolled to his opposite side. Neither said anything else.

When she woke in the morning he was already gone.

XXXX

He didn't knock on her door again. A couple days later they caught a case involving the death of the commissioner's daughter and Bobby's squad room meltdown led to a two month sabbatical, in which they didn't speak once. She thought about calling him on nights when she lied awake and stared at the dark ceiling, fighting down panic at any sound, but couldn't. After a few weeks she figured out a way to sleep peacefully with out him – she put her house on the market and moved into a small one bedroom apartment in Forest Hills.

She didn't know what to say to him or even how to look at him when he came back to work. He seemed a little more together, but just as unsure as she was – both wanting to reach out and neither knowing how. There was a disconnect between them she hadn't felt since they first met; before she really knew him and cared for him. She hated it, wanted to stomp it out, and go back to before it all got fucked up. She wanted to forget.

It was what she thought about when Peter Lyons' hand traveled down her waist to the button of her slacks. She knew she wasn't there out of desire or even comfort, but spite. She was moving on, backing off, or at least she tried to tell herself that. Her throat tightened at the guilt she felt sweeping through her as his hands made purposeful caresses that left her feeling numb. She couldn't be this cold or desperate. She prided herself on getting through things, even if she knew she mostly just buried it and then got herself buried in work, but Bobby had mucked that up. Work could no longer be an escape.

_Trauma will change you_, she remembered Olivet saying during one of their sessions. _But it doesn't have to destroy you…_

"Stop."

She grabbed his wrist as he plucked the button open and looked down at his confused, even if sweet face. How could he not see he was far more invested in this than she was? He was too old to be that naïve or maybe he felt just as desperate as she did.

"I can't," she said.

She pushed at his shoulders and maneuvered into a sitting position from beneath him to re-button her shirt.

"Alexandra…" he said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to rush things…we can slow it down—"

She let out a pitiful laugh and shook her head as she rose to her feet.

"No one calls me Alexandra…" she said, tugging on her boots.

"Okay…" Peter said. "I'll call you whatever you want, just wait a minute."

He caught her wrist and she turned her head to look at him.

"I'm sorry, but this isn't happening. I shouldn't be here."

She easily pulled her wrist free and left before he could say anything else.

XXXX

Bobby's shadowed figure was slumped on the front steps of her building when she pulled into a parking space across the street. A part of her was surprised to find him being so bold when it came to her – to them, but another wasn't. He had been puffed up and territorial ever since Peter came on to help them. She knew his posturing in their final interrogation with Peter was just as much for her benefit as their suspect's. He had been intoxicating with his need to be in control and the way he had danced around that interrogation room, moving his nimble fingers as best he could with the crash course in sign language she was sure he had given himself the night before.

She glanced up at him as she crossed the street. He watched her and wrung his hands together; sitting in remnants of the suit he wore earlier. She thought about how cold he must have been and wanted to scold him for forgetting his coat. Instead, she turned her eyes to the ground as she made it to the steps and then brushed past him to the door. She heard him rise and his feet shuffle against the concrete, while she punched her code in to the main door.

"Did…did you sleep with him?" he asked.

She pulled open the door, but stopped short at entering the building. The anger and bitterness rose through her stomach up to her throat, which tightened with the threat of tears.

"That's really the first thing you want to ask me?" she asked. "What makes you think you even have the right?"

She knew he wouldn't have an answer for that. He shuffled, stepping away and then back to the steps, and something on the ground became particularly interesting.

"That's what I thought," she muttered.

She swung open the door and stomped in, fully expecting him to retreat because that's what he did – he let her set the tone for their relationship and would never out right confront her when things were wrong; could never show too much (at least not on purpose). But then she felt his large frame following her into the foyer and to the little elevator. He hovered behind her while she stabbed at the elevator button and she tried not to focus on the sweet, musky, and familiar scent circling her.

"Go, home, Bobby," she said.

"I don't want to go home."

"Then go stay with your mom," she said.

The elevator door dinged open and she rushed in, but he was still right behind her, following her in and then settling against one of the back corners. She sighed, defeated, and pressed the button to her floor, thinking she could at least lock him out of the apartment. He certainly wouldn't stick around to make a fool of himself to all her new neighbors.

"I…I can't breathe there," he said.

That pulled at her in a way she didn't want it too. It made her ache and want to reach out; to cradle him like some lost child. And frankly, it pissed her off.

"Then why don't you talk to someone about it?"

"Who am I supposed to talk to?" he asked.

His voice carried more bite than she have ever heard directed at her before and it almost made her glad because at least he wasn't acting like some numb zombie or looking like some repentant puppy who just pissed on the carpet.

"I don't know," she said. "You obviously don't want to talk to me about it, so why don't you just go somewhere and figure it out yourself?"

She heard a little, disdainful snort come from him.

"Like you're any better," he muttered.

The glare she tossed him was accented by the ding of the elevator reaching her floor. She faltered, wanting to hit him or throw herself at him, she wasn't sure which, but then she took a deep breath and stepped into the hallway. She felt him a few feet behind her as she walked to her small corner apartment at the end of the hall and tried to ignore him as she steadied her hand to fit her key in the lock. From the corner of her eye she saw him lean against the doorframe and shove his hands in his pockets.

"Eames…" he said, his voice soft and apologetic. "Look, I…I meant it."

He didn't have to say what he was referring to. She knew it was the last night they spent together and all she could do was stare at the cherry colored wood of her door. She knew they never should have let things go as long as they had. It wasn't fair to either of them or the emotions they already had tied to each other – emotions that were complex and easily confused.

"You're not supposed to," she said.

"Yeah, I know," he said.

She wouldn't cry. She refused, even if she could feel the tell-tale signs of it storming up inside her as it dawn on her why she couldn't find any comfort with someone else. It was never about the sex, but what he made her feel – safe, wanted, loved.

"I never should have let this go as far as it did…" he rambled on and she wasn't sure exactly how long he had been explaining himself. "I shouldn't have tried pretending that I didn't want more from you…you-you were vulnerable…an—"

"And you weren't?"

She looked at him for the first time then – really looked at him – and counted all the new worry-lines and grey hairs that had popped up over the last several months. The man she'd seen on those nights alone in her bed was somewhere in there, hiding and scared.

"I…I guess we both were," he said.

She huffed and turned, leaning against the door to look up at him.

"Still are," she said.

He nodded, avoiding her gaze, and then cleared his throat. He was bracing himself, distancing himself, rebuilding the walls between them that had more cracks now than she could count. She wished they could go back to when things were simple – when they were blissfully unaware of what one could completely offer the other; before they both were heavy with trauma and regret.

"Then I…I guess we should just stop while we're ahead," he said.

She nearly laughed at the thought, because she was too aware of the fact they couldn't go back.

"I think we're too far gone for that."

"So, what? You just want to walk away? And from what? Everything?"

The tears were there again. She could feel them welling in her eyes and then the trickle of them slipping down her cheek. She hated them; hated him seeing them and hated even more the slight catch she heard in his own voice.

"Don't…" he said, swiping his thumb against the rebellious tears.

"I don't know what I want," she said. "I thought I wanted to find someone else, but then…I couldn't…and—"

"Couldn't?"

"Sleep with him," she blurted. "It…it wasn't the same."

His hand cradled her cheek and she saw the realization strike his face that he wasn't alone in his feelings. Then she saw him, the sure man she had missed so much the last couple of months, and he pulled her to him. She felt herself relax, even if against her better judgment, and let him hold her, support her weight against his, possessively and protectively.

"Can we go inside and talk?" she asked. "Really talk…about your mom…everything?"

She felt the rush of his breath against her hair and then a reluctant nod.

"I'll try…if you do," he said.

She buried her face into the cotton covering his chest and breathed deep. They had been hiding behind the sex, because it seemed easier than actually sharing how angry and how scared she was, or how grateful she was when she first saw him come into her hospital room after she was found. She didn't want to be lost any more and she knew he didn't either.

"I think I can live with that."


End file.
